


in this sweet dream of mine

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'verse' is short for 'versatile' which means the character both bottoms AND tops in this fic, Anal Gaping, Bottom Sam, Cock Cages, Cuckolding, Daddy Kink, Ephebophilia, Grooming, Lolita Sam, Multi, Pedophilia, Spitroasting, Top John Winchester, verse dean smith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Mr. Smith spends his weekend with his adoptee and an old friend.
Relationships: Dean Smith/John Winchester, Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, dean smith/john winchester/sam wesson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 101
Collections: Shota





	in this sweet dream of mine

Sam’s hair is the silkiest thing, especially when wet.

Dean’s fingers card through it, massage that spoiled little scalp until there are all the telltale of Sam dozing off.

Took a criminally small amount of time to get him this tame.

Dean Smith hadn’t considered himself lucky until Sam came along.

Vocal communication is a sparse thing between them just because they don’t require it that often. So, Dean rinses that fifty-buck soap out of that orphan-hair while Sam has his eyes closed all diligent. Dean gets a little harder in his Prada slacks over how perfectly the water beads on those too-long-to-be-true lashes.

Sam’s the youngest guy Dean Smith has been on his knees for, Dean Smith figures as he lathers more foam in his bare hands. Sam is unaware of that fact, would be unimpressed. Fourteen is not an age of appreciation.

Sam’s eyes won’t slide back open. His lips barely-part for that sigh, for the gentle motions Dean uses to clean him right. They don’t do this often. Sam’s not a fan of hygiene and Dean secretly (not so secretly) adores him for it even though he probably (definitely) shouldn’t.

Sam hadn’t inquired as to why when Dean came home, he had told him to undress right away, join him in the bathroom. Never was too feral, not even in the beginnings when Dean was still a stranger with a gross amount of skincare products atop his sink, with a gross amount of demands, and Sam had been so tiny, such a small little thing. He still is—in ways Dean fosters resilient hopes about him never growing out of.

Sam hasn’t inquired much in quite a while now. Not about the naked kinds of stuff, at least.

Has his thighs spread as if it was natural, lets Dean get his sleeve-rolled-up arm between them and wash him where it counts almost-the-most. Is a little hard by the time Dean’s greedy fingers pull out of him. Has his cheeks and tips of ears splotched pretty-pink and sucks his bottom lip behind his teeth upon Dean’s honest, love-sick, “Good boy,” and doesn’t protest upon not getting his dick taken care of. Because he is, indeed, Dean’s good boy.

Sammy’s all tired and soft after a long day of school. Droops forward into Dean’s chest while Dean towels him dry with utmost care and precision. Lets Dean lick into his mouth when it’s all done, when he’s squeaky-clean and lets Dean interlace their fingers and tell him, “Bedroom, yeah?”

He nods, faithful as a toddler, and rubs at his eye as he yawns.

Pitter-patter of naked feet on Smith’s hardwood floor, next to the strict click of Dean’s Bottega Venetas. Sam’s maybe a hundred pounds when wet. A tangle-y little ghost that smiles polite and gives the most dedicated head.

Dean hums, “On your belly,” just because he likes the sound of it; not that Sam would need much incentive. Plops onto Egyptian cotton and sighs like he’s already asleep. Smith slips off his shoes and retrieves one of the many delicate bottles from the nightstand before he climbs after his child.

Dean straddles that too-small ass, uncaps that bottle to pour some oil into his palm. He closes the bottle, plants it on top of the nightstand and rubs his hands until they’re equally warm and slick. Then, he goes to work.

Sam should be too young to have a back this tense, too old to still require this much attention. Magically, he’s both at the same time.

Dean’s thumbs circle, hard. Sam makes pained stop-don’t-stop groans into the pillows.

Dean whispers, “Imma take you out tonight, alright?”

Sam’s voice is bursting at its seams. Is sleep-dry, crackling. “Where?”

Dean assures, “Somewhere nice.”

~

It’s risky.

Two words that sum up most of Dean Smith’s adult life.

Dean’s lover is primed and prepped and loses his drowsiness with every sip of that sugary heaven of a drink Dean so altruistically produced. (You have to understand that while Dean Smith’s morals are flexible around many things, refined carbs are at the top of the few exceptions.) It’s a cocktail of several substances that are unsuitable for a growing child, which is why Sam’s eyes sparkle extra hard with every breathless suck on his stainless-steel straw.

“Where’re we goin’?”

“You asked that already.”

Sam thinks, restless, straw between his tight middle school lips. He turns to look out the window of Dean’s limousine, the fast slip-by of the city. Dean tucked him into some Gucci, forced him into some deodorant. Those too-big feet are cradled safe in Italian leather. A peek of baby-soft skin just between his slacks and the clingy top of his socks as he swings and tugs his legs.

Sam finally makes up his mind with a, “Is it a sex thing?” and Dean laughs.

Laughs at the lack of anxiety in that throat. At the barely-there tinge of excitement.

Mainly, Dean Smith laughs because he is hopelessly in love.

~

John opens the door without a tie but with a huge smile. Greets them, open and generous; shakes Sam’s hand and half-hugs Dean, doesn’t miss fitting his palm into the dip of Dean’s lower back, manages a kiss behind Dean’s ear.

Dean smiles wholeheartedly, wrinkles be damned.

“Make yourselves at home.”

There are exactly zero bashful parts about Sam Wesson, especially with the aid of the magic shake slowly but surely filtering into his bloodstream. (There is no need for nervousness, Dean knows; no need for that queasy tinge in any stomach, not tonight. Sam is none the wiser, anyway.)

“Woah,” he blurts, already stepped into the center of the entry hall. “Awesome.” The white marble shines bright. The tiny gap between Sam’s front teeth shines brighter. “Are you a movie star or something?”

John chuckles, “Sort of,” and invites them into the main living room.

Dean knows this villa. Its nooks and crannies. Spent godawful amounts of time here when he was younger, and dumber, with his coke habit still alarmingly active.

His body remembers the firmness of this sofa, the smell of the carpets and the fireplace, the distant promise of premium bourbon and brandy.

Hasn’t allowed himself to think back, come back. There are parts of yourself you can’t quite keep intact as a man of his position and power.

Dean Smith flirts with thoughts of early retirement, lately.

Love gets you the fuck unhinged.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Dean smiles. “It’s okay,” he tells his baby, whose eyes ask for his permission as he’s already getting pulled and tucked into the confines of John’s lap. “John and I have been friends for a long, long time, y’know?”

John hums, “God, we used to be young, didn’t we?” and play-pins some of Sam’s bangs behind Sam’s ear, and Sam’s eyes are wide and awake and his body is all slack, all easy and mendable with how he’s draped to John, back-to-chest. John is strung tight-smooth, plays it cool but Dean can tell by the snarl of his mouth, the hungry set of his eyes. “How old were you, eighteen?”

Dean snorts, “Sure,” and gets a hand on his thigh.

John’s other hand rubs little-league-firm along Sam’s shoulder. “So, I’m John. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sam.”

“Hm, a good name.”

Sam informs, “Short for ‘Samuel’.”

“You know what it means? ‘Word of God’,” John says, low and gentle and shimmies Sam in his arms so he sits better on the increasing swell of his dick, probably. “‘John’ means: ‘Yahweh is gracious’.”

“What’s ‘Yahweh’?”

“The Hebrew word for God.”

“Oh.” Sam’s brain visibly stores the information with the already-there, endless supply. Stares at John all open, all carefree. “What’s ‘Dean’ mean?”

“Hm, that one’s a little different.” John’s Dean-hand runs up-down. Dean offers more of his inner thigh, and John takes it. “‘Law’. Or ‘justice’.”

“So, Dean doesn’t have to do anything with God.”

John laughs. “That’s one way to put it,” and he adds, “You’re precious, you know that?” and Sam smiles, all-sweet.

The booze has him flushed where it counts. Dean tilts his head, in-love, and flirts his fingers into the obscene back-again gap between Sam’s slacks and socks.

Dean confides, “Sammy’s the best,” and doesn’t miss the deepening dimples in his baby’s pinked cheeks.

“Your daddy loves you a lot, huh?” John’s Sam-hand finally rubs below teacher-levels. Cups that barely-there hip, almost-paws that meager ass. “How much do you love your daddy, Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes swim for a second. Dean’s boy is smart, always calculating. The drugs don’t aid with that. That face turns a little redder, those thighs clench in almost-secret.

“I love Daddy—a lot.”

“To the moon and back?”

Sam nod-huffs, “Yeah,” and Dean has to pull that twig-arm down from where it tries to absently tuck a thumb between those lips.

“Daddy’s so lucky to have such a pretty baby all to himself, isn’t he?”

“I—I’m not.” (There’s a substantial amount of jealousy in Dean Smith over how John always, always, manages to find anyone’s weak spot.) “Not a baby.”

“What? But you’re Daddy’s baby, sweetheart.”

Sam visibly struggles with the concept. John takes that as an incentive to rub along that doe-leg, arrange that body as he likes, as easy as pie.

Sam fails to find a response other than pushing back into John’s touches. Down into the familiar heat of dick against his ass.

John gives Dean a grateful squeeze between his legs. Licks his lip over the uncaring weight of the teen offering in his lap, hums all low.

“Sweetheart, can I kiss you? Like Daddy kisses you?”

Eyes on Dean, who nods with confidence, and so Sam nods as well.

It’s quite the picture. Dean’s heart doesn’t know what to feel. His cock surely does.

Sam puppy-huffs around John’s fat tongue, into his salt-and-pepper beard. Does his best to kiss back but the drugs are kicking in and make it a challenge. Grunts, helplessly, and gets John’s second hand to cup his face, will his jaw more open.

Dean feels himself leaking into his Calvins.

“Open that mouth. Stick your tongue out. Yeah, like that.”

Sam’s lashes flutter upon John’s spit hitting his tongue. Tries to fist his little hands into John’s button-down but is too distracted by drag upon drag of tongue over his own, into every corner of his mouth.

Manages, eventually, once John gives him a chance to breathe, “Tha-that’s not how, how Daddy kisses me.”

“Yeah, no, that’s how _I_ kiss you, baby.” John hikes that leg up to rub hard into that still-clothed gash. Sam trembles not only a little, eyes darting to Dean who feels fucking out of his body, who feels like a beast, a monster. “Imma kiss you like Daddy kisses you in a second.”

Dean orders, “Take your clothes off.”

Sam tries his best. Sways where he stands, barely confused about it and God he’s so perfect—his slacks tented before he slips those off, before they pool around his ankles and he nearly-trips as he untangles it all. There’s no finesse to any of it. There will be creases and creases and creases, and it makes Dean that much more agitated.

Finally naked, Sam remains standing in front of them—unsure. Dean had forgotten that look on him. All flushed and shaky-legged, and that thumb has ghosted back to those lips and Dean didn’t even notice. Doesn’t feel like correcting it.

Not with how hungry John growls.

Tells Sam, “Sweet boy,” and tickles his fingers up from knee to thigh, and only two out of three are highly aware of the jump of that drippy dick. John grates his fingers down that pubic bone, ignores the angry throb of that overgrown cock to cradle those balls instead.

Sam’s hips strain into the touch.

“You’re so wet already,” teases John, and Dean swears he feels that tug.

Sam nearly falls back into John’s arms.

“You feel good, sweetheart?”

Sam nods, thumb still splitting his lips.

“Good. That’s good.” John’s fingers rub lower. Sam shifts his weight just-so, and Dean is father-proud. “’Cause that’s what we want. Making you feel good.”

“You wanna make John here feel good, too, Sam?”

Sam uh-hums. Starts climbing even prior to Dean’s,

“Then sit in his lap again, yeah?”

Sam makes it to a straddle with John’s benevolent aid. Has two hands on his ass and his cock sandwiched between his lower belly and John’s chest, and it’s John’s turn to shudder.

“Fuck. God.” Flash of teeth, no smile. “Smith, you goddamn motherfucker.”

Dean offers, “Love you, too,” and gets his stupid mouth kissed for it.

There’s some kind of Pavlovian bullshit going on with feeling John Winchester’s beard around his own clean-shaved mouth. Ancient stuff that goes straight to Dean’s cock, crawls into him and urges him to push his ass out against sheer air.

Dean’s eyes slip open to the sight of John’s bastard fingers pulling Sam’s ass wide, rubbing into the sweetness in between with practice.

“You’re gonna call me Daddy, too, you hear? Gonna have two daddies.”

Sam agrees, “Okay,” and, uselessly, adds, “okay, Daddy.”

“Such a good fucking boy, Sam,” is a grumbled threat at this point and Dean presses close so he can see—everything, anything. Watches the tremor in his boy when John play-presses up into where Dean never lets him get not-soft anymore. Where he’s well-used and trained and conditioned, but this isn’t Dean.

So Dean reprimands, “Hey,” and shoves at his friend. “Don’t hurt him.”

John not-jokes, “Now how am I supposed to do _that_ ,” but allows Dean to squirt some lube from the bottle they both know is not-hidden between those two specific cushions. Not-asks, cruelly, “You really love him, huh?” and lets Dean pet through his beard while he chokes him on his tongue some more.

Sam makes held-off noises.

John’s fingers squelch in the never-not-tight squeeze of his pussy just right.

Too much too soon. That’s John for you.

“You really gonna let me?” and that’s not directed at Sam. Has that special low that’s just for Dean, has always been.

Dean is gonna come into his fucking pants. Or lose his mind. Or both.

Possibly both. “Want you to,” he croaks, and Sam trembles over John in his peripheral.

Bends and bows and whines, head tucked low at this point.

John gets his second hand down there. Pulls Sam forward for the two of them to see better, forces another two into the kid to pull him open.

Dean’s million-dollar boy is all pink.

John repeats, “Fuck,” and makes Sam whimper with how much force he uses. How uncaring he is in his effort to make him gaped and used-looking. Like someone who deserves to be treated this way.

He pulls one hand free to clap Sam’s ass so hard he yelps with it.

Gives him another few, just because.

“I want you to fuck his mouth while I fuck him. Later,” John adds. Under his breath. With want making him the kind of dangerous Dean used to exist for, would pry and dig and beg for.

John yanks his fly open and his cock throbs free unhindered, too heavy to leap, not hard enough yet to stand freely so he jerks it once, twice, two fingers of his other hand knuckling deep into Dean’s boy and a third joining in just for the hungry suck of it.

“Sit on this cock for Daddy, sweetheart. C’mon.”

Another clap, another yelp. Despite Sam setting into motion immediately after being asked.

Sam’s sobbing once, drowning, and John grunts, “Fuck,” in a new shade.

“Dean, get my camera real quick, yeah?”

Dean fucking _scrambles_ for it.

It sits where it always does. Prone, innocent. Dean knows the buttons by heart.

By the time he’s made it back to the sofa, John’s already rubbing his perineum against the rubber-band inside of Sam’s sphincter.

Dean groans, “Fuck,” and wills his hands firmer, on his knees between John’s spread legs and that’s a category of memories in itself. He used to be jealous of every second John wasn’t buried inside of him (one way or the other), but he’s grown out of that. Slowly but surely.

Sam’s ass looks so goddamn tiny in John’s hands. Is indented with the pressure of those fingers, those claws prying him open, pulling him down. Reddish-pink halo and he swallows another inch, gets popped back up so John’s cock reappears slick and strangled for the camera.

Sam’s all out of big boy words.

“Let Daddy fuck this pussy, baby, c’mon.”

Sam’s ass is fire-red, plastered in angry shapes of fingers, of John’s palm. He whines, and he tries, rocks down but John holds him tight. He’s not going anywhere unless John drags him there.

Dean is surprisingly present enough to slather another fat line of lube just around the stretched-to-nothing rim of Sam’s hole. John rewards with a grateful grunt, with a hungry surge of his hips that stab his cock upwards, deep into Sam’s insides where he’s all hot and snug and milking him right, and Sam’s noise isn’t a noise of displeasure.

Not at all.

A whine that flows into mutters, into slung-tight arms around John’s neck and the darling throb of that body all the way down to where his ass is mouthing at the base of John’s cock, tailbone snug with those too-full balls.

John praises, “Oh, sweetheart,” so pussy-drunk it’s heartbreaking.

Dean knows the feeling.

Dean watches his hand shoving into the picture. Watches his thumb rubbing daddy-love into the fat lip of that hole. The wet spot in front of his pants feels cold against empty air.

Adds, dreamingly, “Baby, you’re so tight.”

John placates, “Not much longer,” and it looks so fucking easy to just lift the kid by his hips, pull him up that cock just to push him back down.

Dean’s eyes are fixed on the preview screen. He’s sweating.

Sam sounds sweetest with a cock up his ass. Lets you do whatever you want, turn him out. Lets John use him so willingly, so beautifully.

Warns, “I’m g-gonna come,” because he’s perfect like that. Throat tight with tears and maybe some shock of his own, but Dean’s been stuck on that particular cock enough to know what it does to any slut, no matter how ready you think you are.

“Go ahead,” growls John, lost in his rut now and flying sweat, balls slapping hard up against Sam’s already-beaten ass. “Do it. Come on.”

And Sam does. Toes curling and thighs shaking, his slim back spasming and he gasps like he’s dying, whines and shivers and John grumbles daddy-noises over the chokehold he’s fucking his cock through, unrelenting.

Until Sam whimpers for, “Stop, stop,” and then some.

Pulls the kid up for good, both hands holding him wide with ease.

John grins wolf-wide over Sam’s smooth shoulder, over the collapsed line of his neck. Presents the custom-wide gape for the camera, that stray line of lube oozing from too-deep. But you can still see it.

Bottomless mouth. Starved, hollow.

“Now don’t fall asleep on Daddy, sweetheart.”

A barely-there protest in Sam’s drippy mouth. Hidden in the crook of John’s neck while John presses the hard line of his cock back where it’s soft and warm.

“Not quite bedtime yet.”

~

Smith wakes to the insistent press of two dry fingers on his asshole. To the sleep-scratch of John’s beard in the back of his neck, the heated line of John’s cock nudging into the soft swell of his ass cheek.

Smith’s mouth shivers open in involuntary sympathy. Sam is still out and squeezed tight in his arms.

“Let him sleep, hm?” requests John, and Dean Smith’s ass pushes out with intention.

Dean’s hoe days are long behind him, and John has mercy. Swaps pussy for mouth instead, gets them down to the knuckle easily here. Doesn’t have to tell Smith to do it right.

Spit helps. Dean shudders. Inhales the angel-scent of Sam’s hair and makes an effort of keeping his noises to a minimum. Sighs, once John’s teeth find his neck and his crooked fingers find his g-spot.

He wishes he could say: it had been so easy to forget.

“How many,” hums John, and Dean whispers, “Nobody important,” and, “not anyone for a long time.”

John slathers lube on himself before he stops wasting time, lines up and breaches and forces, and Dean begins to doubt how he’s supposed to stay still or quiet when all he wants is to roll over, get on all fours like he so desperately, so suddenly, _needs_.

It’s been years, Smith thinks, recalls. Yeah, years. Since Sam came along and then some.

John growls, “Fuck,” and, “you’re tighter than him,” and that’s when a first whine escapes Dean.

John takes the opportunity to bottom out, grind them together like they’re supposed to be, and Dean manages a hand on that hip and shudders, “Slow, fuck, he’s gonna wake up,” and John bites him harder for that.

John doesn’t care about white-collar shit. About visible bruises being a problem or rope burn on your wrists and ankles and calling your parents, consoling them _’course he’s fine, he’s with me_.

Dean’s body shakes under the rough morning fuck. The harsh rhythm of it cannot possibly be called a cradle, and thusly, Sam begins stirring soon enough.

Smacks his lips against Dean’s tit and Dean holds him tighter, buries that tiny face deep against his skin.

Dean hears John’s, “Sweetheart. Baby,” over the fading darkness of John’s bedroom, over the pleasure-sparks behind his closed eyes. “Wake up, Sammy, you gotta help me make Daddy feel good.”

Smith’s chest forgot what sobbing feels like. Remembers, though, when John rearranges the three of them and Dean has to let go of Sam in order not to crush him, to get on hands and knees and let John push his face into the pillows.

The covers shift and fall and he’s not sensible to the cold at all.

Sam hums awake under the sharp clap of skin on skin, the driblets of Dean’s ignored cock over his concave-belly.

“Mh, what…?”

“Play with Daddy’s tits for me, sweetheart.”

Dean whines.

“You know how to do it, right? As if he was a girl.”

Sam’s not supposed to know this side of him. That he can be like this. Unhinged. Hungry.

Those unsure, cold fingers find the hard peaks of Dean’s nipples, and Dean gives himself away with that shivery gasp, because John praises, “Jus’ like that,” and Sam tugs at him then, all experimental, and Dean’s cock cries a new line of precome into that navel.

The sheer fact itself that Sam is in this bed and John’s burying his dick someplace else, is…a love confession.

Dean’s orgasm approaches fast. Ripples through him in waves, starts so low until it reverberates in his goddamn teeth, and he muffles everything in his pillow, but John feels it, of course he does. Gets one leg up to really lay into him, punch him out like Dean’s twenty-one all over again.

Tells Sam, “Don’t fucking stop,” and Smith’s golden boy doesn’t disappoint.

Smith is disoriented as fuck once he’s let up, once John yanks his cock out of his fish-mouthing hole, slaps it down on it several times while he catches his breath.

“You always keep it waxed? Just in case? Or is that for me?”

Dean gurgles, “Fuck you,” and John tuts, “What was that?”

“Fuck me.”

Four of John’s fingers come down on Dean’s hole and taint and he nearly barks with the sting, struggles to stay still while John gives him another and another. Until he’s sore and his skin feels broken, and John fish-hooks his thumbs to pry his ass open, tilts him up like that so he can sink a line of spit in there.

Lets him loose and Dean feels his ass almost-snapping all the way closed. Almost.

John pants, frustrated. Groans, “God,” and, “I’m starving.”

~

Dean’s got all his attention on the eggs until a familiar voice comes alive behind his back.

He splutters, “Don’t,” and turns to catch John and Sam behind John’s iPad, John smiling wide and proud and Sam still naked, eyes glued to the screen.

“You used to be so cute. He deserves to know.”

Dean snarls, “You don’t get to decide that,” and fails to snatch the device. Gets a peek of his baby-fat face stuffed with John’s sturdy-even-back-then fingers, the dreamy high of his lidded eyes. “John, quit it.”

“I feel like Daddy’s a little shy today, baby.” Stage-whispered to Sam, eyes on Dean. A kiss to Sam’s thoroughly-ruffled hair. “Doesn’t he look so pretty, though?”

Sam offers, “Don’t be upset, Daddy,” and Dean grits, “I’m not.”

“Daddy’s only showing you this because you were so good last night. It’s real special.”

Play button. Dean stands by with red and redder cheeks, can’t see but hears the action unfolding further. He doesn’t remember much of the situation itself, but he remembers the video being played back to him. It’s one of John’s favorites, he always said.

Dean’s little one’s eyes gloss over with that dumb expression he gets in front of any technical device. His little mouth is slacker by the second.

The stove hisses with the excess water boiling over the top of the pot. Dean bounds back to it.

A numb little, “Mh,” behind him, the sound of John kissing Sam wetly on the cheek.

“Yeah, thought you’d enjoy that.”

John keeps the kid in his lap throughout breakfast, strokes him absently whenever he feels like it. Sam inhales his food slower, distracted like that, and Dean takes furious notes.

Sam doesn’t complain about getting washed by the two of them in John’s huge master bathroom’s shower. Tries his best to jerk both of them off at the same time, one in the front, one in the back, but that’s not what this is about. Kid cannot quite manage two hungry mouths, is all slippery with water and soap. There’s only so much time until he’s all dirty all over again, anyway.

John’s not too patient—Sam’s hair is still stringy-wet by the time his back meets the bed once more.

John’s between those thighs instantly, possessively. Barks, “Fuck his face,” and Dean obliges, knees into the mattress where Sam’s already gasping with both hands in John’s hair, his ass suspended in the air with how John’s folding him.

Sammy tilts his face up all obedient, cranes his little neck and offers the pink back of his throat, grunts adorably under John’s noisy art of eating him out.

Lets Dean slide his cock right in there, no teeth. Closes his lips and purses and hollows his cheeks, and Dean groans with familiar hunger at the sight, the sensations. Sam’s become so good at this.

Sam’s distracted now, though. Stumbles his breath, shudders and quakes. He’s gonna have the sweetest beard-burn these next few days.

His little pussy’s been fat-lipped even prior to John getting his wolf-mouth on it. Looks all sensitive and swollen by the time John lets up, lets Dean take a good look—one thumb on each side, barely a pull and Sam’s all open, pink and pulsing and all slick.

“You should get him pierced here.” John’s thumb love-strokes over the plumpness that is Sam’s peach of a taint. “A neat line of barbells. Would look so fucking good on him, don’t you think?”

Dean pushes his cock a little further down Sam’s throat. Feels him swallowing.

Slurs, “Fuck,” and, “I dunno, maybe.”

“I know a guy.”

“’Course you do. For all I know, _you’re_ the guy.”

“Mh, love how well you know me. You took them out, though,” John commiserates, strokes his thumb across one of Dean’s pink-soft nipples. “Fucking shame.”

Dean argues, “Th-they kept—showing through my shirts,” and loses his breath somewhere on the first syllables.

John grins. Flirts, “Coward.”

~

“There you go. Beautiful.”

Everyone’s eyes are glued to Sam’s now well-caged cock. Of how badly it already tries to chub back up, and fails; twitches, uselessly.

John cups the inside of that one too-slim thigh. “Tell him how pretty he looks, Daddy.”

“You look amazing.”

“Mh, you do. And, I bet you, Daddy remembers very well how good it feels to wear one. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

Sam’s fat lower lip trembles with his, “You did?” and Dean gets that much harder for the fucking humiliation.

He’s not sure how he’ll be able to play all this down, back home. But that’s gonna have to wait.

“All the time,” recounts John.

He pulls the kid back towards him, covers his tiny tits with his huge hands to grope at him right. His cock is still shiny with Sam’s spit and swings dangerously until it lodges where John wants it, and where Sam lets him.

“Gonna beg to get fucked with this baby on. All you’re gonna be able to think about. All you’re gonna fucking get, kid.”

Sam makes a hurt noise, lets John pull him down on his cock nevertheless. Squirms so pretty and the glint of metal between his legs awakens urges in Smith he entirely forgot about.

“Only way you’re gonna get to come, baby,” a low-whispered promise to that red shell of an ear. For Dean, “Try two weeks, first. Take it from there.”

Sam hits new notes. Moans wildly, frustratedly, and God, Dean knows, he _knows_.

He’s gonna fucking lose it over this kid one day.

“Baby, you heard him. Come like that or don’t come at all.”

Sam makes pleading noises around the fat throb of Dean’s cock. Is all red and pent-up and they put him away wet once they’re dumped another set of loads down the respective holes.

Sam doesn’t protest upon his hands getting wrapped up in mittens. Huffs, weakly, for the penis-gag, and doesn’t have much capability once Dean rucks him ass-up, face-down, to nudge a generously-sized plug up his creamy hole.

Mumble-hums, sweet and peaceful. Tries to stop Dean from fitting the plug in, but the thick leather of the mittens robs him of all influence.

John murmurs, “How’re you so cute, huh?” and peppers Sam’s swollen little face with countless papa kisses.

Sam’s been an abandonment case. Anger issues, the whole nine. Dean built this kid from the ground up. Got him educated and fed, taught him what it means to have a safe home, what it means to be loved and give love back.

It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks or says—Sam’s all his.

“He’s the sweetest.”

“Stop saying that. You’re spoiling him.”

“How many tiny suits have you bought for this brat, huh, Smith? So much for spoiling,” and John slips another scrap of his lunch to the wet little mouth underneath the table.

They had Sam crawling here like a pup. John got bored eventually, removed the gag so he could at least keep his cock warm while they eat.

“If anyone’s spoiled, it’s me.”

Dean snorts.

“No, really. That you’d share this with me—I know it means the world to you. Him.”

John’s hand finds Dean’s on top of the table, without Sam’s knowledge.

That thumb rubs across Dean’s ring-less knuckles.

John smiles. “You love me.”


End file.
